Shelter From The Storm
by androidilenya
Summary: When Morwen and Niënor flee Dor-lómin and end up in Nargothrond, a chain of events are set in motion that will change – and perhaps save – many lives. Finduilas, on the other hand, isn't sure that this Niënor girl is entertaining enough company to make up for how irritating she can be. (AU, Finduilas/Niënor)


**Written for ParadifeLoft at the 2014 Ardor in August exchange, betaread (rescued) by Elleth.**

* * *

The clash of steel on steel rang through the courtyard, splitting the silence. Finduilas danced back, a hint of a smile playing around her lips as the young elf before her parried, brow furrowed with concentration.

"Watch your left, Rínilmë," she warned, and her blade flickered out. The dull tip pinged off of Rínilmë's training armor before the dark-haired elf could get her own sword in the way. She pulled back, surprised, and Finduilas' sword flicked up to rest against her collarbone.

"And done," she concluded, breathing heavily.

Rínilmë's face fell. "Again?"

"Do not take it so harshly." Finduilas wiped the back of her hand across her brow – she had worked up a sweat despite the cool air. "You got in a few touches more than last time. Keep it up and perhaps you will have me beaten before autumn comes."

The girl smiled. "Nay, milady, I doubt that I ever will." She left unspoken the lingering certainty that by the time autumn came, these sparring sessions would be over. Finduilas had always made sure to make time for the daughters of Nargothrond's nobles, but the time inevitably came when someone would step in and put a stop to it. They were destined for other things, and Finduilas was always pressured to be the aloof one, the one unentangled in politics. A _mediator_, for what it was worth.

These stolen moments were her quiet form of rebellion, an attempt at forging _some_ sort of connection with another, no matter how fleeting.

(Perhaps if the rulership of Nargothrond had not fallen to her father, things might have been different.)

She was dragged back to reality by the sound of a horn, echoing off the walls of the keep. In one of the watchtowers that poked up above the caves, the morning guard had spotted something approaching.

Rínilmë glanced up, brow furrowed. "Tis far too early for the patrol to be returning––"

Finduilas nodded, fingers falling over themselves in her haste to undo the rest of her armor. "I'll go and see. Stay down here." She made her way over to the stairs with a bit more haste than strictly decorous – but who was here to see her, save Rínilmë?

The guard on duty was one whose face was familiar to her, though she could not remember her name. Finduilas joined her at the window, resting her hands on the rough stone and leaning forward, trying to see.

"There are four, milady," the guard supplied.

Four. The typical patrol consisted of only two – partners were sent out for a few days at a time, managing to cover most of the land surrounding Nargothrond.

"That's Aewion and Indilmë," the guard said abruptly, startling Finduilas. "The two with them, though – I do not know them."

"I will see to it that my father is awake and ready to receive them, whoever they are." If the patrol had seen fit to accompany them back, it was doubtless something worth bringing to her father's attention.

* * *

By the time the four travelers reached the gates of Nargothrond, Orodreth and his court were waiting for them in full regalia. The king had a thin gold circlet bound about his forehead, a gleam of jewels at his throat. Finduilas remembered her uncle looking the part of king more – with the Nauglamír, for one, and an ornate crown that was now dented and set on a plinth somewhere to gather dust.

There had never been a contest as to who looked the part of king more. It was an uncharitable comparison, though, and one she usually sought to avoid.

She turned her attention to the approaching patrol. Flanked by the two soldiers were a pair of mortal women, one grey-haired and steel-eyed, the other fair, with hair a paler gold than Finduilas' own. The older one met Orodreth's gaze unflinchingly, but the younger one – her eyes wandered about the crowd with lively interest, as though taking note of every detail.

"Morwen, Lady of Dor-lómin," Aewion announced, snapping to attention. Orodreth inclined his head.

"We welcome you. You are far from your homeland, are you not?"

"My _homeland_ is overrun by traitors and murderers." The woman – Morwen's – voice was clear and ringing, cutting through the rustles and whispers of Nargothrond's nobles. "My daughter and I fled when it became clear that our life was in danger. Will you grant us refuge?"

Orodreth let the silence draw on, seeming to deliberate. Finduilas already knew that they would be allowed to stay – Nargothrond had once had a reputation of being open and inviting, and if that courtesy had waned somewhat since the circumstances of Finrod's abdication, Orodreth still could not afford to lose face before his court by turning these two away at this point.

It was a curious two-part dance, though Finduilas nearly pitied the two mortals for their role as chess-pieces.

As though to prove her point, Orodreth took a measured step forward and offered Morwen an arm, smiling widely. (A genuine smile, for all intents and purposes – Finduilas' disingenuousness had not come from her mother.) "You are welcome in my court, Lady Morwen – whatever you desire, you need simply ask."

* * *

Finduilas raised a hand and, after a moment's hesitation, rapped her knuckles on the door. There was a pause, then a muffled, "Come in, child."

The door opened with a creak and her mother looked up with a smile. Gwaedhil was tall, with tawny skin and thick black hair that she kept cropped short; she bore every physical marker of an elf of the Falas, which was her ancestral home.

"How did you know it was me?" Finduilas asked, easing the door shut behind her. Her mother laughed.

"Only you know to avoid that creaky floorboard just outside. Your own silence gave you away." She patted a cushion beside her – she still favored the custom of the Falas that made use of cushions and mats set on the floor instead of chairs. Finduilas sat and watched as Gwaedhil returned to the papers scattered across the low table. They dealt with troop supplies and patrol schedules, most of them written in her mother's cramped handwriting.

The fact that Orodreth's wife held a higher position than him as captain-general of the army had long been a source of amusement for many. For his part, Orodreth did not seem to mind. Gwaedhil's marriage to him had been a political one, an attempt at an alliance between the Sindar of the Falas and Nargothrond, yet Finduilas could say that there was clear love between them. Neither of them were given to passionate displays of affection, though, which may have been a factor in the publicly held assertion that the two of them cared little for each other.

"You saw the Lady Morwen and her daughter this morning?" Finduilas asked, leaning forward to pluck a sheet from the pile. _Report on Talath Dirnen,_ she read before Gwaedhil retrieved it.

"Yes, I did."

She waited, but her mother tended to be even less talkative than she was. (Orodreth sometimes joked that between the three of them, they put the silence itself to shame for being so loud.) "Do you suppose Father did the correct thing, letting them in?"

"I think that time will show the wisdom of his decision, Finduilas," Gwaedhil said without looking up from the report. Another moment passed before she looked up, but her eyes drifted towards the closed door. "And I believe that I have found someone who moves even more quietly than you."

"What?"

Her mother flicked a finger in the direction of the door. Mystified, Finduilas rose and opened it.

Morwen's daugher stood in the doorway, hand poised as if to knock. She lowered it, peering up at Finduilas curiously. Finduilas, who had heard no signs of her approach, had to control her urge to start with surprise.

"Hello," the girl said. "I was told that I would find the lady Finduilas here?"

"She's the one staring at you in speechless surprise," Gwaedhil supplied, standing and smiling at the newcomer. "You may just ruin her reputation for being the quietest in Nargothrond, at this rate."

The girl smiled, bright and sudden. "Oh, no, my mother says I chatter far too much. I'm Niënor, in case no one told you."

Finduilas nodded curtly. "Welcome, Niënor. Who sent you up here?"

"The King did – he and my lady mother are speaking of happenings up north, and I believe they wanted me out from underfoot. A common enough occurrence, truth be told."

_I can believe it._ She pushed the thought away. "Would you like a tour of Nargothrond?" she offered, aware of her mother's gaze boring into her back, and was mildly disappointed when Niënor nodded. Oh, well, she had practice enough dealing with irate nobles, she could handle one talkative mortal for a few hours.

* * *

_You have a gift for sneaking about, child_, Orodreth had told her once, in a tone of voice that was half exasperation and half bewildered amusement. The occasion that had prompted it had involved a clever hiding spot in the council room and an ill-timed sneeze on Finduilas' part. The looks on the nobles faces when the dust-covered girl had fallen out of the cupboard had been worth the scolding she received later.

Part of that success was the fact that she rarely made any noise even when she was not hiding in empty storage spaces.

Niënor, on the other hand, was anything but silent. She spoke at a breakneck pace, Sindarin faintly accented and speech a good deal more casual than Finduilas was accustomed to.

"...Mother thought the journey was worth the risk as long as we left during the harvest – something about how the invaders would be too busy trying to keep everyone in line to notice a few missing? Auntie Aerin helped with that, she kept attention well away from us. But we didn't quite make it to Doriath," Niënor chattered as they made their way across one of the open-air battlements, a high rock face looming above them to hide them from the outside. The rush of the river through the underground caverns below could be heard, filling the air with a constant flow of noise – which was nearly drowned out by that emerging from her companion's mouth.

_By Varda's crown, does she ever shut up?_ Even her _footsteps_ were loud, tramping across the walltop next to her now that she wasn't trying to sneak around. Finduilas closed her eyes, took a deep breath, opened them again.

"...my _brother_ has spent my entire life in Menegroth, you see, and my mother thought we could meet him there. But there was a band of Orcs near – Teiglin, I think? – so we detoured south and ran into your patrol."

Finduilas held the door open for Niënor and they stepped into the cool shade of the tower. Niënor skipped down the stairs with one hand trailing down each wall of the narrow stairway. Finduilas followed more slowly, half-listening to the stream of noise echoing off the enclosed space.

"To tell the truth, I've never seen something so grand as Nargothrond." She paused at the base of the stairs and turned to grin at Finduilas. "It's _wonderful_."

Her hand came up to touch Finduilas' shoulder – a thoughtless gesture of easy friendship, but Finduilas jerked back before she could stop herself. The grin slid off Niënor's face, and she let her hand fall.

"Sorry," she said, voice softer. "Sometimes... Mother says I do tend to talk on, and I..."

Finduilas shook her head sharply, not sure if she meant it as consolation or impatience. Niënor seemed to take it as the latter, because she did not speak a word for the rest of the tour.

* * *

She couldn't figure out what had gone wrong.

Keeping an expression of polite neutrality among strangers had long been a specialty of Finduilas', and her reaction to Niënor's friendly gesture had been entirely unwarranted and illogical. Her first instinct was to call it annoyance, claim that Niënor's babbling had finally gotten the better of her temper and she hadn't been able to hide that. But that wasn't... wasn't quite right.

There was something else.

_Regardless. It was impolite of you to treat her that way __– __or _impolitic_, if that serves as better motivation._

She would have to do something about that.

* * *

The next morning, Niënor came down to watch Finduilas' morning sparring session.

Finduilas noticed before her partner did, and pointedly turned away under the guise of beating Rínilmë back with a flurry of blows. She had planned to find Niënor that day and apologize, but this was a little earlier than she had expected to see her.

_Why is she here?_

She disarmed Rínilmë with a twist of her wrist and bowed, trying to keep her breath even. "Excellent work. It seems that my other duties have come to find me, so if you'll excuse my early departure...?"

Rínilmë's cheeks were flushed red with exertion as she returned the bow and nodded, tapping the practice sword against her boot. "By all means, milady."

She took her time getting undressed, hanging the training armor up on a hook on the wall for the next person to use, keenly aware of Niënor's eyes on her all the while.

"Is there something you want?" she finally asked, turning to face the girl, forgetting entirely about her decision to apologize for her behavior. To her surprise, Niënor smiled.

"Only to spend some time with you."

For a split second, Finduilas wondered if she'd forgotten entirely about her sharpness the day before, but then she went on.

"If you don't mind my babbling." Finduilas was careful not to wince. "And if it's not too much of a _duty_."

"Not at all." Just shy of cold, not quite entirely neutral. She kicked off her boots and padded over on bare feet to a bench set against the wall. At this hour, the sunlight came in through the single skylight at a shallow angle, leaving most of the courtyard still steeped in shadow, the stones cool against her feet. Niënor sat down beside her.

"Does it get lonely?" she asked abruptly. Finduilas glanced at her sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"All the _milady_'s and _if you please_'s and everyone tiptoeing around you like you're made of glass." She leaned back, tugging thoughtfully at the end of her golden hair, which was tied back in a long braid today. In the shadows, it gleamed softly. "I always hated it when Moth––_people_ treated me like I was liable to shatter any moment," she added in a softer voice.

"It is a sign of _respect_," Finduilas replied shortly.

"Is it?" Niënor's turned her face up to the cloudless sky above the walltop. "If no one trusts you to be able to watch over yourself, is that _really_ any sort of respect?"

Finduilas opened her mouth, but there was no stinging retort ready. What did one say to something like that?

* * *

Here was the problem: Niënor kept coming _back_.

It didn't matter what Finduilas said or did – it hardly even seemed to matter if she cared. Niënor would return like a puppy to its master, panting for any sort of attention, affectionate or otherwise.

She had a way of thoughtlessly ripping through Finduilas' carefully constructed mask as though it were not even there, cutting deep with a couple of innocent words. Finduilas found herself responding more often, speaking more freely than she might have with another – more because she did not worry about Niënor's reaction than because of any feelings of friendship.

Still, it was easy enough to confide in her.

It started out small – petty annoyances expressed after a particularly trying council session, and then detailed critiques of the policies of various Nargothrond nobles, and then complaints about her own father's rulership. Niënor hung on every word, nodding with the sort of wide-eyed interest that spurred Finduilas on to further verbosity.

"You must be the only mortal to know so much about the politics of the Eldar," Finduilas noted once, pausing selfconsciously halfway through a ridicule of one particular lord. Niënor laughed.

"Oh, but a silly mortal could never hope to grasp such complex things – isn't that right?" It was said with just a little too much innocent charm. Finduilas narrowed her eyes.

"You're not as shallow as you seem to be," she snapped. "And you're just clever enough to pretend you aren't at all, isn't that right?"

Niënor offered her a wide smile, all teeth and no guile. "You are the master of disguise here, not I."

* * *

Autumn turned to winter turned to spring, and before Finduilas could blink, Niënor and her mother had been in Nargothrond for nearly a year.

Niënor had proved herself a capable student in many disciplines – from the kind woman in the kitchens, she learned the art of baking; from the gatekeeper she wheedled a few words in seldom-used Quenya, most of them insults. (Finduilas, who had spent most of her life speaking Sindarin, nearly choked on her food when Niënor cheerfully called her a _drooling Orc-lover_ over dinner with Morwen.)

On one particular morning, she came to Finduilas' early exercises bearing two berry turnovers wrapped in a thin napkin.

By now, Rínilmë had moved on, replaced by a much younger girl – barely tall enough to wield a full-sized training sword. The noble's daughters had a way of being cycled _up_ when they were deemed ready – on to command positions or diplomatic marriages, while Finduilas remained frozen in the in-between place of a princess no one knew quite what to do with. Once, she had known the path her life would take – she had been betrothed to Gwindor, destined for a life of petty politics, and there had been a certain security in that knowledge.

(She hardly ever thought about Gwindor anymore, though she had wept bitterly enough at the news of his fall in battle. It was hard to remember how long it had been since, when every day seemed the exact same.)

Finduilas accepted one of the turnovers and bit into it, burning the roof of her mouth on the piping hot filling. A flicker of a smile at the corners of Niënor's lips betrayed her amusement.

"How early did you rise to bake these?" Finduilas asked, fanning her mouth.

Niënor shrugged, making a soft noise of dismissal. "Doesn't matter. Do you like them?"

She could cut her down here and now – remind her that this meant nothing, that _Niënor_ meant nothing. She could do that, and know that Niënor would still return.

Instead, she cleared her throat and said, "They are delicious."

Niënor's face broke open in a smile brighter than any Finduilas had seen yet.

_Careful, or she might take this as a cue to bring you breakfast _every_ morning._ And while she couldn't say that she would mind that, she also didn't want to _encourage_ Niënor. She finished the turnover in silence and made her way into the maze of tunnels that led back to the main hall, Niënor following her.

"I do have a question for you," Niënor said after a pause. Finduilas raised an eyebrow.

"Was that the purpose of the food, to – what do you say, _soften me up_? You'll need to be a bit more subtle in the future, if that's the case."

The girl blushed faintly. "Yes, well. I was just wondering – if it had been up to you, would you have let my mother and I enter Nargothrond?"

Caught off guard, Finduilas nearly stumbled. Niënor regarded her with wide, solemn eyes, seeming to take her silence as answer enough.

"It's fine. Had it been my home..." She trailed off, then shrugged, fixing her gaze on the floor. "Well. It wasn't my home, it was yours, so I suppose that's your business."

Finduilas cleared her throat. "I might not have welcomed you then." Niënor winced, and Finduilas plowed onwards, not quite sure where the words were coming from. "Perhaps not _then_, but I think that, were the question to arise again _now..._" She left it at that. No need to admit more than she had to, and Niënor would read into it exactly as she wanted to.

Sure enough, Niënor brightened. "You know, Finduilas, I never really had a close friend before you."

_I'm not your friend_, she thought, but it lacked the savage urgency it once had held.

Niënor's hand slipped quietly into hers, and Finduilas did not pull away. She was sharply aware of the sound of Niënor's breathing, the way her footsteps echoed off the passage walls – she could be quiet when she wished, but was more often a presence made entirely of _noise_, as though she felt the need to announce herself to the world.

(_And sometimes you want to silence her, don't you?_)

Niënor's shoulder bumped hers and she glanced sharply at her, frowning. The girl returned her gaze, blue eyes dancing with amusement.

"Time was, you'd have pushed me off a wall for doing that."

They had paused in an intersection between two tunnels, close enough that Finduilas could feel the soft rush of air as Niënor exhaled. She found herself leaning forward as though dragged down into the well of gravity surrounding the girl.

There was little tenderness in the kiss. Hunger, on Finduilas' part, and helpless desperation on Niënor's – it was clear that she had no idea what she was doing, but the noise she made against Finduilas' lips was enough. (Her mouth tasted of cherries and sugar, sweet and oddly familiar.)

They pulled apart.

"I'm sorry," Niënor blurted out, as though Finduilas had not been the one to initiate.

Finduilas opened her mouth to reply and was cut off as the distant clamor of the warning bells split the air – three sharp clangs, and a pause, _stranger at the gate –_ followed by the long-short-short pattern that so many in Nargothrond had waited eagerly to hear for so long.

_Soldiers returning._

She and Niënor exchanged a glance, then hurried down the passage towards the great hall.

* * *

There were two of them – a mortal with proud grey eyes and an elf who walked with a curiously bent-over gait, face lined with sorrow and pain. Morwen emerged from another passage and started violently at the sight of the mortal. Finduilas felt Niënor tense beside her.

"She wouldn't – that must be my brother," she whispered.

Curious, Finduilas examined the mortal more closely – so _this_ was the Túrin that Niënor spoke of so often.

"He doesn't look anything like me," Niënor added, voice hushed.

"He resembles your mother." Finduilas laid a hand on Niënor's arm, signaling her to be quiet.

As Túrin spoke to Orodreth, she turned her attention to his companion, the elf. His left arm ended abruptly a handsbreadth below the elbow, and he kept it tucked half-under his threadbare cloak. As she watched, the elf looked up and straight into her eyes. His flashed with sudden emotion.

With a shock, she recognized him.

_Gwindor?_

* * *

They left Túrin in the great hall, standing proud before Orodreth's throne, his words echoing off the high ceiling, bouncing off all the walls. Strange, that Finduilas had once thought Niënor's talkativeness just as grating as she already found his voice.

"Mother will want to see him first," Niënor said breathlessly. "And I've never even _seen_ him – do you suppose he'll like me? Oh, I do hope he will––"

"I can't imagine why he wouldn't," Finduilas said, and it didn't come out quite as dry as she had intended it to. Rather, it sounded nearly kind. (Gwindor. Gwindor had returned, he who had been thought dead, and every time she met Niënor's eyes she felt that same hungry spark as she had earlier, and what was she supposed to _do––_)

"I'm terrible with new people," Niënor confided, all in a rush, and Finduilas bit back the urge to say _yes, I rather noticed that._ "Suppose I make a mess of this, too. My first change to speak to my only brother. What if––"

"Just _go_," Finduilas snapped, and sucked in a deep breath when Niënor's eyes widened with hurt. Eru, but it was easy to injure this girl. "I know you're impatient to meet him," she continued in a softer voice. "Go and see him."

"I'll come back," Niënor promised, looking oddly desperate. Finduilas nodded, not meeting her eyes.

* * *

She avoided Gwindor – avoided everyone, for the most part, and wondered how many of them expected her to pick up the betrothal with him as though nothing had happened. Meanwhile, Niënor returned every day with more reports of her brother – what Túrin had said today, the stories Túrin had told, Túrin, Túrin, _Túrin_ until Finduilas slammed the door in her face and told her that if she wanted to come in, she had to find another topic of conversation.

Petty of her, perhaps, but she could see for herself how quickly the man rose in the king's trust. How much power Orodreth vested in him with the wave of a hand. Even when Finduilas emerged to attend council meetings, she could easily track how much more he spoke at each successive meeting, from the first one he was allowed into to the one three years later where Orodeth carelessly handed Gwaedhil's command of the army to him.

Her mother and father had a blistering fight that night that ended with Orodreth storming out, shouting over his shoulder about being sick of people questioning his ability to rule. Finduilas had crept into her mother's room later that night to find Gwaedhil packing up army reports in stony silence.

"If the mortal wants these, he can have them," she had spat under her breath, seemingly only half aware of Finduilas' presence. "It is of no matter to _me_, clearly."

Niënor took to dogging her every step as Túrin forged his way deeper and deeper into the political circles of Nargothrond and consequentially further and further from his sister. And so the months stretched on, time flitting by outside even as Nargothrond seemed to stagnate, the swiftness of Túrin's rise a contrast to the rest of the fading realm.

As though to fill the emptiness, they found deserted corridors and hidden corners to duck into and spent their stolen moments sharing breath and touching each other with quick, fluttering fingers, ghosting over bare skin and clothing.

The idea that they might get caught seemed to unsettle Niënor, who blushed every time Finduilas kissed her. That discomfort only spurred Finduilas on to further recklessness – pulling Niënor behind doors and pressing her to the wall whenever someone walked by, muffling her noises of protest with her hand.

Those moments with Niënor tended to be a welcome distraction from the rest of her time.

* * *

After keeping her silence for months, she wrote Gwindor a letter that acknowledged the inherent cowardice of the gesture even as it apologized for her avoidance of him. In it, there was no promise of further communication.

In it, she did not mention their former betrothal.

He replied with a simple note – _Act as your heart desires, Faelivrin, and not as you think anyone wishes you to._

A reply was not necessary. She was already doing just that, and it had changed nothing.

* * *

"You don't like my brother much, do you?"

"What have I done to give anyone that impression, hm?" Finduilas asked, running a hand down Niënor's leg, circling her knee and drawing a shiver from her. They were lying on her bed on top of a tangle of blankets, both of them still fully clothed, though Niënor's dress was hiked up around her hips.

"Not _anyone_. Just me." Niënor smiled, winding a strand of Finduilas' hair around her finger. "The rest of them can't tell when you're annoyed, you know."

"His ideas are foolish." _He has usurped my mother's position, stolen my father's ear._

"They seem reliable enough to me."

"That is because you have no practical experience in ruling a kingdom," Finduilas muttered, and if it came out a little sharply Niënor paid it no heed. "Fighting in the open? Building a _bridge? _Folly. Sheer folly."

"Yet the King seems willing to listen to him."

"That is the entire problem." Her fingers twitched restlessly against Niënor's hip, burning with disquiet. "My father sees no need to listen to sense. He has been warned – by my mother, her former lieutenants, some of the nobles who remain untouched by this madness. Gwindor, even. Yet they are too few."

"Or too quiet," Niënor murmured.

Finduilas chose to ignore that. "They will not even let me speak in counsel anymore – your brother has the ear of the King, and the opinions of his _foolish daughter_ matter not. Nor does the foolish daughter herself, it seems."

"She matters to me." Niënor spoke with such perfect honesty that Finduilas was left nearly breathless. "You know that, right?"

Finduilas could not find the words to respond, and settled for kissing her, knowing it would be a sufficient distraction. The way Niënor relaxed into her with a soft noise was enough to set warmth curling inside her, but as the girl had not expressed any interest in – further contact, Finduilas could settle for simply holding her like this, feeling her heartbeat as though it were her own.

* * *

The messengers from Círdan came on a spring evening five years following Túrin's arrival in Nargothrond, two former followers of Angrod bearing news of imminent peril. Finduilas watched from the shadows, wondering if it was worth the effort of hoping that either her father or Túrin would show some sense.

She decided against hope, and was therefore not disappointed when Túrin urged for open action against the Enemy.

"We can stand against the might of Morgoth," Túrin scoffed as the messengers left, his eyes flashing as though daring someone to contradict him. "See how we have already freed the lands about Nargothrond?"

"They say there are Orcs mustering in larger numbers than ever," Orodreth began, looking concerned for the first time in a long while. Túrin laughed.

"They have been defeated before, and we shall do it again."

Finduilas made a noise of disgust that she did not even attempt to hide. No one seemed to notice but her mother, who shot her a meaningful glance.

* * *

"We must have a plan." Gwaedhil folded her arms, brow furrowed. Before her was spread a map of Nargothrond, with inhabited caves outlined in dark blue and all the exits marked in red. She surveyed those who had gathered in her chambers – Finduilas, Niënor, and half of the current captains – including Rínilmë, who had nodded briefly to Finduilas as she sat down.

"What you are asking of us is near treason," one of the captains warned. Gwaedhil laughed mirthlessly, harsh and bitter.

"Take your pick, Indilmë – logical treason and survival, or loyalty to insanity and death?" She waited. Finduilas surveyed the dozen or so elves gathered – most of them seemed uncertain but willing to listen, based on the way their gaze skittered from her mother's face to the map and back again.

"The battles on the Guarded Plain have gone well," Rínilmë pointed out. "We do have considerable military might, milady."

"Might that is now in my brother's hands," Niënor said, drawing the stares of the captains. She nodded at the map. "Perhaps in the hands of the Lady Gwaedhil, we might have stood a chance. But not in Túrin's hands."

Finduilas had not expected that, but the support of one who supposedly knew Túrin better than any of them would help.

"A contingency plan is always wise," Gwaedhil added. "In the event of an attack, we must be ready to mobilize and protect our citizens – and flee, if at all possible. Círdan will take us in, if we can make it to the Falas." She paused. "Orodreth may have stripped me of my command, but I hope that you will still trust my decisions."

(_I do not blame him_, her mother had said that night, a deep sadness in his eyes. _He does what he deems wise, in a precarious time. A good king cannot sit by and allow his kingdom to fall to ruin. I merely wish that – he had not chosen this particular path._)

One by one, the captains voiced their consent. Niënor's hand found hers under the table and squeezed once. When Finduilas glanced at her, she smiled reassuringly.

* * *

Their preparations were undertaken with the sort of open secrecy under which Finduilas had always operated. Gwaedhil moved with remarkable speed, organizing supply wagons and portable shelters that could be gathered within an hour and taken. Every citizen of Nargothrond knew that they were to flee at the former commander's word – every citizen except, perhaps, Orodreth himself.

The end came far more quickly than any of them had expected. A mere five months after the messengers had departed, at the waning of autumn, news of a great host from the north: the great golden dragon had come, with his hosts of Orcs, and was burning and defiling the vales of Sirion, making his way southwards.

Orodreth marched north to engage the advancing hosts of the Enemy in battle on the field of Tumhalad. Finduilas watched as her mother stood in the gate and kissed him long and hard, saw the gleam of tears in her eyes as she pulled away.

(They would all die. It was the same heavy knowledge that had swallowed up the regiment sent to the Nirnaeth, and Finduilas did not think she would see her father again on this side of the Great Sea.)

"Is this it?" Niënor asked, winding her fingers through Finduilas', who nodded curtly.

They left Nargothrond nearly empty, save a handful of guards. Finduilas was not surprised when Gwaedhil planted her feet and refused to leave – had been expecting it, on some level – but that did not lessen the pain.

When she lingered to beg her mother to come with them, Gwaedhil smiled.

"My place was always on the battlefield, not in reteat. You lead your people, Finduilas." Gwaedhil knelt before her, and Finduilas felt a flash of _no, that's wrong, you can't_ before the rest of the remaining soldiers followed suit.

"Lead wisely," Gwaedhil told her, then pushed her westwards, following the column of civilians winding their way to the distant sea.

_Refugees_, Finduilas realized. _That's what we are now._

They camped in a dip in the plain, the fires of Nargothrond's ruin setting the eastern horizon ablaze in a false sunrise. Finduilas forced herself to watch it until her eyes watered and colors danced behind her eyelids every time she blinked. Niënor joined her, leaning against her shoulder and offering her warmth.

"This is how we survive," Niënor whispered. "Keep running and hiding, and maybe find a place of safety."

"That _was_ my place of safety," Finduilas replied, hating how broken her voice sounded (how broken she felt).

"We'll make another." Niënor grasped her hand, and Finduilas remembered that Niënor had never _had_ a safe place, had never known true security. And remembered, too, that she was not the one to provide such a thing.

_Nowhere is truly safe,_ she wanted to say, and could imagine Niënor's reply well enough – _with you it is._

_You are foolish to believe that. _

_(And I am even more so for taking comfort in it.)_

Instead, she stayed silent. Nargothrond burned, the distant scent of smoke and ruin carried by the cold wind. She let Niënor fall asleep on her, hair falling forward and fingers curled into Finduilas' shirt.


End file.
